


Deep Deep Feeling

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mystery, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: John’s serious accident brings to light an arch enemy Sherlock didn’t know he had and gives Sherlock an opening to change his answer to John’s question, “So, you’ve got a boyfriend then?”The path forward is never easy for our boys, but none of us would want it any other way, would we. Not even John and Sherlock."You know that deep, deep feeling when you love someone so much, you feel your heart's gonna burst." - Sir Paul McCartney
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

Crouched behind the shrubbery, Sherlock watched the exchange with fascination.

This was a John that Sherlock was unfamiliar with. Attentive, captivated even, by the youthful man who sat close to him on a bench. Sherlock's line of sight almost obscured by low-hanging branches, he was still able to see that every so often, John leaned in to touch the other man’s hand, his arm, in a way that Sherlock couldn’t describe as anything other than flirtatious.

 _I haven’t seen him like this before_.

The bespoke suit John wore, tailored on Seville Row at Sherlock’s insistence, somehow made John’s eyes bluer, his face brighter. The impeccable pocket square adding just the right amount of flare. Yet somehow, Sherlock couldn’t say he liked this John; he preferred John in his everyday clothes, having come to see them as the essence of John Watson–sturdy, sensible.

Comfortable.

But the suit, and John’s performance _(I_ _t_ is _a performance, isn’t it?)_ , was accomplishing its task–convincing Preston Mayhew that John was a man who had a secret to hide and a wife to hide it from. That John was a man of great wealth and was willing to share some of that wealth. With the right person.

Through an earpiece, Sherlock heard John say, “I have a flat near here. Shall we…?” John palmed Mayhew’s leg and, with an inviting smile, gave Mayhew’s thigh a firm squeeze.

Mayhew dipped his head and pressed his mouth to John’s, putting his hand on the back of John’s neck. Putting an arm around John and pulling him closer. “Let’s go to my place, instead,” he said, murmuring an address. “I’m sure we’ll be much more comfortable there.”

Sherlock blinked. John had relaxed into the embrace, seeming entirely comfortable with the scenario, going so far as to wrap his own arm around Mayhew.

 _He’s a far better actor than I would have thought to give him credit for._

John and Mayhew kissed. Soft, tentative explorations that Sherlock supposed would be of the kind two people getting to know each other would share.

_Why is John going this far? Why doesn’t he get him to the meeting point, as we agreed? Ahh, I know. He’s gaining Mayhew’s trust. That’s what it is. Has to be._

But in the next second, Mayhew arched away from John, looking at him for a hard moment. Mayhew sprang to his feet and bolted.

John exploded. “ _Fuck._ He felt the wire!”

Wincing, Sherlock tore his earpiece out and, breaking from his hiding place, he darted after Mayhew. In his side vision noting that John, too, had taken off running. 

Sherlock’s shoes slapped against the wet pavement as he sailed down the park’s pathway, narrowing the distance between himself and Mayhew. And dragging brisk air into his lungs, ecstasy mushroomed in his brain, giving him a high unlike any drug he’d ever experienced. But, as intensely satisfying as it had always been to pursue and catch his man, to have John at his side made it ….made it… almost orgasmic.

Sherlock stumbled, arms flailing to restore his balance. _Mortifying._

“You all right?” John called from behind.

Recovered from his glitch and powering forward, Sherlock shouted “Superb” and doubled his efforts. John was with him; what could be wrong?

_This is how it should always be. Always._

Mayhew neared the park’s exit onto Baker Street. Though almost as tall and as slim as Sherlock, Mayhew must have lived a soft life, making him sluggish, and Sherlock calculated it shouldn’t take much more than a block beyond the park before he caught up. Brimming with his own brand of confidence, Sherlock slid his mobile out of his pocket and speed‑dialed Lestrade. “You’ll have him before a half hour,” he said.

Mayhew picked up his pace as he approached the road, but his increasingly unrhythmic stride broadcast that he had expended the bulk of his energy.

 _I’m not yet winded. I could run for miles._ Sherlock couldn’t help but gloat.

Sherlock lagged barely a few yards behind as Mayhew stammered across one street and then the next without seeming to check for oncoming vehicles, a foolhardy move considering it was a blind curve. But luck was with Mayhew–the crossing lights were in his favor, and he made it to Baker Street unscathed.

Baker Street's pavement teemed with pedestrian traffic and, with balletic grace, Sherlock weaved through the throng of people, dodging the plodding shoppers and tourists, heavy bags hanging from their arms.

Just out of reach of Mayhew, Sherlock aligned his body into a sprinter’s stance and lunged, the power of his right leg pressing against the pavement and springing him forward far enough to claw at Mayhew’s overcoat and jerk him to a stop. And before Mayhew could wrench free, Sherlock grabbed his arms and pushed him face-first onto the concrete. Sherlock kneed Mayhew in the back, retrieving handcuffs from his pocket. He strained around, looking for John, but he couldn’t catch sight of him. 

_Odd. He hadn’t been that far back_.

But something was happening back at the crossing, a commotion of some sort. A black cab sat in the road, and a flock of people gathered on the far side of its bonnet.

In the brief moments Sherlock’s attention was drawn away, Mayhew managed to leverage his body enough to tilt Sherlock off balance.

“Down!” Sherlock shifted his weight so that he sat on Mayhew.

_Where is John?_

Sherlock stared down the street.

At heads facing downward. At the young woman who shielded the eyes of the child beside her while she herself couldn’t stop staring at what everyone else gawked at. At the man who seemed near hysterics, gesticulating wildly and then covering his mouth with his hand.

Sherlock scrabbled to his feet, barely registering that Mayhew struggled upright and ran off. Sherlock headed toward the crossing slowly at first, his feet dragging as if mired in quicksand, but as he heard the first wails of an ambulance, he started to jog. The siren growing closer, he broke into a full run, mindless of anything but the fear of what he might find when he reached the crowd. 

_It can’t be. No. John’s not a child; he knows to look for traffic. He’ll emerge from the park at any moment, giving me flap about leaving him behind. Telling me I’m a cock for always monopolizing the glory._

Sherlock’s mind racing, he frantically made a list of explanations of why John had failed to keep up with him, but reason rebelled against them all. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. John would be by his side unless something against his will kept him from doing so.

When Sherlock reached the edge of the crowd, before he saw what caused the shocked expressions, before he heard the murmurs of “poor bloke” and “damned cabbies think they own the road,” he knew.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

With no thought for anything but John, Sherlock shoved through the wall of people, seeing what he knew he might never unsee. Not far from the cab, John lay on the street, the blood trickling from his nose a vivid red against the deathly pallor of his face. His legs positioned so unnaturally that it was as if a macabre puppeteer had experimented with how far he could bend them without snapping them in two. And John’s face, scraped and bruised, looked worse than many a corpse Sherlock had— _No! Don’t go there._

The cacophony of the city faded into an eerie quiet, and everything else ceased to exist as Sherlock threw himself onto his knees. With a trembling hand, he touched a wrist, a bloodied cheek, a chest that offered such shallow breaths they were barely visible.

_John…_

~~*~~

The call came while Nika sat waist-deep in packing materials and, digging in the pocket of her baggy loungers, she grabbed her mobile. With the screen stubbornly refusing to display the caller’s number, she hesitated to answer, but it might be Oleg; her husband’s mobile had chosen that morning to go on the fritz, and he would have needed to borrow one.

“Oleg?” Putting the phone on speaker and balancing it on her knee, Nika cut a generous swath of bubble wrap from an industrial-sized roll.

“Dr. Rudnikov.”

Nika froze, mid-cut. She hadn’t heard that voice in more than a decade, but there was no mistaking to whom it belonged. Taking into account the rarefied world in which she moved, Mycroft Holmes’s voice still stood out as exceptionally self‑assured and, to be frank, a wee bit oily.

“Mr. Holmes, Nika, please,” she had said, forcing a smile to her voice. It was a call she’d waited years to receive, giving her the opportunity to repay Mycroft Holmes for saving her life, but it couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time.

“Nika.”

Nika heard him draw in air and clear his throat, as though he were having difficulty articulating what he wanted to say. It wasn’t the Mycroft Holmes she had known. Though, admittedly, she hadn’t known him well.

“I’m afraid I seek your assistance in a most urgent matter. I trust I’m not presumptuous in thinking that, after all this time, your offer is still valid.”

Nika glanced around at the chaos of bubble wrap and half-empty crates, and her first inclination was to respond with an emphatic no, she hadn’t time; she was moving to America in three days. But the thought of refusing filled her with shame. Mr. Holmes had used his influence to secure the safety of her and her family when he could have turned away. How could she consider denying him any request? Especially one she had unreservedly offered, though it was so long ago.

“Mr. Holmes, of course. My time is yours. When do you need me?” Nika gently set the porcelain clock on a stack of silk packaging paper and rose to her feet. In the mirrored wall, she caught sight of her rumpled hair, her pallid, unrouged face and debated taking the time to refresh herself, but as she listened to Mr. Holmes, she brushed the thought aside.

“A car is on its way to retrieve you,” Mr. Holmes said, after having given her the briefest of summaries of what he knew. Which, in reality, was nothing. Then, uncharacteristically for someone who wielded almost limitless power, he offered a humble “Thank you, Nika” before disconnecting.

Gathering a wool wrap to shield herself from the cool evening and her purse, by the time Nika opened the front door, a sleek, black Jaguar idled in front of her house, double-parked on the narrow street. When she approached the car, the driver held the door for her, handing her a slim portfolio that would contain vital information–a detailed account of the injuries, the patient’s known medical history, X-rays and other imaging reports. She would study them on the ride.

Finishing her review of the file just as the car pulled up to the hospital, Nika frowned. Dr. Watson wasn’t at all the type of patient Nika had imagined she would be asked to perform surgery on. She would never admit it to anyone, but when she had thought why Mr. Holmes might call on her, she had given over to her romantic side; she had envisioned a furtive journey to a make-shift surgery where awaited her a head of state or an undercover agent protecting Britain’s deepest secrets. But no, the patient she’d been asked to help was no one of import, and Nika was disappointed. This all seemed so, well, ordinary. And to add insult to injury, she could see nothing that would require her expertise.

There must be something Mr. Holmes wasn’t telling her. Who was this Dr. Watson to him?

Nika hurried into the hospital and down the hall to the office that only the day before had been hers. Dropping her things onto the desk with a whump, she turned on the computer, pulling up Dr. Watson’s file from the server. She studied it for what she could well have missed in the physical files.

Picking up the phone’s handset, she pressed a button.

“Suz. Is John Watson still in surgery? …yeah, I know. I’m as surprised as you that I’m here…Listen, I’d love to chat, but— No worries.” Nika thrummed her fingers on the desk; she needed to get moving.

“Would it be contraindicated for him to stay under a while longer? There’s something suspicious in his images, and I want to take a look as soon as possible… How long? Good. I can be ready by then. Let me talk to Jax…Good talking to you, too, Suz…We will. Okay, bye.”

Nika peered again at the scan; there _was_ something there. But just what was she looking at? Whatever it was, it seemed to be the reason Mycroft Holmes had summoned her. More than her skills, it looked as though it was her silence he depended on. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mayhew’s back slammed against the wall, Sherlock’s grip on his shirt collar pressing him into the hard surface.

“Who do you work for?!” Sherlock bellowed. 

“I’m trying to tell you—”

Sherlock ground him harder against the wall. “You didn’t do this on your own. Who helped you?!”

“Do what? I told you—"

Sherlock jerked Mayhew toward him, using momentum to swing him heavily onto the chair, and he handcuffed his wrists to the slats. Grabbing a rag from the table, Sherlock shoved it into Mayhew’s mouth, a muffled moan escaping around the dank cloth. And when Sherlock crouched down like a lion ready to pounce on his prey, Mayhew retreated to what little space was left behind him in the seat.

“It would be in your best interest to tell me what I want to know. I cannot otherwise be held responsible for what I do next. Do you understand?”

Mayhew nodded, his eyes welling with tears.

“When you ran from the park, my friend— The man you met in the park is at this moment in sur—" Sherlock bounced on his haunches. _This cannot be happening_. A _few hours ago, John was at my side. Now he’s…_

Sherlock shot back to his feet and loomed, grabbing a clump of hair and stretching Mayhew’s head back. Exposing his pale white throat.

“Who arranged the crash? Who do you work for? Who do you work _with_? Tell me!”

Sherlock ripped the towel from Mayhew’s mouth. “Speak!” A hinged knife appeared in his hand and, with a flick, the blade shot out. He needed to speak the common language that everyone understood. Fear.

Mayhew stared at the knife as if in shock.

“I haven’t all day!”

His mouth at first bobbing for sound, Mayhew found his tongue, and his words tumbled out. “I didn’t pl-plan anything. I’m not a violent person, you have to believe that. I came to London t-to go to school, but the cost of living here and, and I saw your friend and thought I could make some money. I-I’m sorry about…I don’t even know what happened to him I hope he’ll be okay—”

Disgusted with the groveling, Sherlock stuffed the towel back into Mayhew’s mouth. He didn’t need Mayhew’s pity. He needed John to be whole.

He needed _John_.

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temples, willing himself to focus. To focus on his surroundings, something he’d not had time to do in his frenzied interrogation of Mayhew.

The flat was far too small, too plain, for someone who made their money blackmailing some of the more well-heeled men of London. It took but minutes to riffle through the few items in the tiny studio flat: kitchen paraphernalia, a three-drawer bureau, a handful of books on bird watching, a few toiletries, and minimal cleaning supplies. Running gloved fingers along the interiors of the few cupboards and drawers, Sherlock felt for hidden envelopes, keys, notes—anything that might clue him to Mayhew’s connections.

Ha! Unfolding the murphy bed, Sherlock found a laptop tucked between the blankets.

Powering it on, he briefly studied Mayhew. Sherlock keyed in 12345ABC, and without a hint of humor, snorted when the desktop appeared. Opening the email folder, after a fleeting look at a number of exchanges, he rounded on Mayhew.

“Who is Tom? Is that your handler? Your partner?” 

Mayhew grunted an unintelligible response.

Sherlock whipped the rag out, and Mayhew coughed. “I’m Tom.”

“Tom? Why do you go by Tom?” He’d seen nothing in the police files that indicated Mayhew had an alias. _How did I miss that?!_ Sherlock tamped down the uneasy thought that this was why John lay in hospital— _he_ had missed crucial information.

“It’s my name. Tom Bayers.”

Sherlock wedged his hand between Mayhew’s buttocks and the chair, retrieving a wallet from Mayhew’s back pocket. Flipping through the wallet and fingering through the post on the counter, the realization hit him: the man sitting in front of him may not be Preston Mayhew.

Using the same passcode to open the banking app on the laptop, Sherlock slammed the computer shut; the bank account, in the name Thomas P. Bayers, held a paltry £132 and change.

“If you’re not Preston Mayhew, then how did you know to meet J— the man at the park?”

“I didn’t know. I saw him sitting there, dressed to the nines, and I took a chance. He looked like he needed a…like he needed a friend. So, I was friendly.” Mayhew’s fear glistened on him, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin. 

Sherlock shut his eyes and replayed the meeting. There had been nothing suspect about Mayhew (Bayers?) sauntering along the path, approaching John. True, Mayhew had asked the time instead of asking for directions, as was the code, but the two inquiries had been so similarly mundane and cliché as to be interchangeable. And the man handcuffed to the chair beside him had looked remarkably similar to the man in the grainy, ten-year-old photo that Lestrade had given them. 

Still replaying the scene in his mind, Sherlock saw another man stray within view about five minutes later. Homed in, at the time, on the exchange between John and Mayhew, Sherlock had barely given the other person a passing thought. But had the second man been the actual Mayhew? He had walked within several yards of John and, glancing in John’s direction, had spun on his heel, retreating. Sherlock hadn’t seen his face; the canopy of his umbrella had shielded it from view, but his height and his frame had been…

Had they had the wrong man? Had they— No, had _he_ made a mistake so egregious that it may cost John his life?

Sherlock swallowed back the acid rising to the back of his mouth.

Shooting a text to Lestrade— **Not Mayhew at the park. SH** —Sherlock fled the flat, ignoring Bayers pleas to be released.

~~**~~

Clasping her mouth with her hand as she looked up from the microscope, Nika felt certain the gesture was unnecessary—she was speechless.

“Nika? What is it?” Jax stepped quickly to her. Before him stood a woman who, if not in a panic, veered far too close to one, and this was not the Nika that Jax knew.

Moving her hand from her mouth, Nika’s lips moved, but no sound came out. All she could manage was to wave in the direction of the microscope.

Jax peered through the eyepiece, a gasp escaping him. “What in the actual fuck? What the hell.”

Nika’s stomach roiled. Jax, the man from whom she had never heard a word stronger than _crikey_ , confirmed for her the seriousness of what they had recovered from the patient’s brain.

She had a strong urge to flee. 

Still hunched over the microscope, Jax said, “You said he’d been an Army doctor, right? Do you think the MOD had something to do with this? They have a pretty sordid history of experimenting on unsuspecting soldiers, and I—"

“I hope to god not,” Nika said, finding her voice. “I know of some early research using microchips to stimulate paralyzed muscles, but Dr. Watson’s files showed no history of paralysis, and it isn’t the Ministry of Defence doing the research. This wasn’t even in the motor sensory region. There’s something not right about this, Jax. _Really_ not right.” Nika rooted through a drawer for an antacid, half hoping she’d stumble upon something stronger.

“It _is_ a computer chip, isn’t it?” She realized she hadn’t said it aloud. Maybe Jax had seen something different. Maybe she was overly fatigued from spending long days wrapping up her practice and readying a household to move thousands of miles away. But the look on his face told her that she hadn’t gotten it wrong. 

Leaning back against the counter, Jax folded his arms. “Who did you say this fellow was who called you to look at the scans? Milo Holmes? Is he MOD?”

“Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. I knew him a decade or so ago. Well, ‘knew’ is an exaggeration; we never had any association beyond him helping Oleg and me out of Russia.” Nika chewed at her lip. “I was grateful for his help and told him that if he ever needed a favor from me, I would be happy to help. He saved our lives, after all.” 

“But you never expected that the favor would put you back into a, well, a threatening place.”

Nika nodded. He knew her so well. “I lived through enough fear in the old country. I don’t need…I can’t…”

“You need to call him, tell him to come get it,” Jax said. “Maybe he can redact the names of the surgical team. No one has to know about you.”

A tepid smile crept onto Nika’s face. “Just like you, wanting to protect me. But you know it would be easy enough for the government to find the records. They don’t care about privacy.” Her sigh was heavy. “I need to call Mr. Holmes; there’s no way around it. Let him know that I found what he was looking for. My mobile’s in my office.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Nika reached a hand to his arm, grateful for his unfailing friendship. “No, I don’t want to get you more involved than you already are. Go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“If you’re sure. You know I’m here for you.”

“I know. Now, off you go.” Using what felt like the last of her reserves, Nika smiled at Jax, trying to reassure him she would be fine. Trying to reassure herself that she would be fine. 

Collecting the slide from the microscope, she left for her office, needing desperately to sit in the quiet dark for a few minutes before she faced the— Faced the what? And she realized that not knowing what was to come was her fear. 

Her soles squeaked on the corridor floor, the only sound in the now empty surgery center. Reaching her office, she swung the door open. 

“Mr. Holmes!” Nika nearly dropped the slide at the sight of a figure sitting in the far side of her office.

“I do apologize for startling you,” Mycroft said, rising to his feet.

“No, not at all,” Nika lied. She used the time it took to walk the chip to the desk to regroup. She wasn’t expecting him _here_. And certainly not now. Though she shouldn’t be surprised; he no doubt needed to take action as soon as possible.

Straightening the hem of her blouse, Nika turned to Mycroft. She was as ready as she would ever be for what was about to come.

“You and your husband are well?” Mycroft’s smile was pinched, a grimace, really.

“We’re as well as can be, Mycroft. Thank you for asking. Off to America in three days’ time. Moving, in fact.” Nika shook his outstretched hand, noting how, not unreasonably, he had changed in the intervening years. A little less hair, a little more tummy, a little less upright. And most surprisingly, a little less haughty, as though life had taught him that he didn’t have quite as much control over it as he had thought.

“So happy to hear.” As though a burden had been lifted by having the niceties out of the way, Mycroft seemed more assured, more like the old Mycroft she’d met, as he switched subjects. “I trust Dr. Watson’s surgery went well? In particular, the one you performed; I understand there was a procedure that proceeded yours.”

_Okay, then. We’re getting to the heart of why he’s here._

“Yes, the surgery on his leg went well. As for the neurosurgery, the images indicated I could modify the stereotactic biopsy technique—which doesn’t involve going in through the skull—to retrieve the, erm, the item. Dr. Watson has a concussion, which, with proper care, he should heal from nicely. Not to minimize the seriousness of a concussion but being hit by a car is a nasty business and often causes even more severe brain trauma.”

Mycroft’s relief was plainly evident, and Nika would have felt empathy for him were it not for the government’s involvement. In Russia, she had had more than her fill of the government’s intrusion into peoples’ personal lives.

Taking a deep breath, she charged on. “Your faith in my discretion is not misplaced; thank you for allowing me the opportunity to repay you for all you did for me and my husband.” _And I pray this is the end of our association. Forever._

As if it had just dawned on him what Nika had been saying, Mycroft looked directly at her and asked, “Item? What item? I’m afraid...”

“The chip,” she said, the pressure of a burgeoning headache pushing at the back of her eyes. “The one we found near Dr. Watson’s temporal lobe, the memory center. Surely, that’s why—” Nika stopped abruptly, unsettled by the confusion on Mycroft’s face.

Turning to her desk, she swiveled the computer screen so they could both see it. Tapping a series of keys, she brought the screen to life and then pulled up an enhanced image of the chip she had removed. “It’s here on this slide,” she said, pointing at the rectangle of glass on the desk. “But it’s indiscernible to the naked eye.” 

Mycroft glanced at the slide and then at the screen, and the face that had moments earlier shown signs of actual life, shut down. Nika could read nothing there. Not surprise, not delight, not horror. Nothing.

His face moved again only when he removed his mobile from his pocket and, holding it up, asked, “Would it be possible for me to…?”

“Of course. The office is yours.” Nika hurried from the room, shutting the door behind her.

_He didn’t know. He didn’t know! What the hell is going on?_


	3. Chapter 3

Hugging his Belstaff tighter around him, Sherlock huddled on the bench’s hard, unforgiving slats. The structure not nearly long enough for his frame, he still had laid there for hours, his feet dangling off the end. But he wasn’t there for comfort. He needed to be near John. He needed to be in the last space that had held the John he knew, not the pale, immobile one he had last seen.

He had ridden in the ambulance as the crew had rushed John to hospital, whisking him away into the bowels of the building and admonishing Sherlock not to follow. “We’ll do all we can for him, sir.”

_We’ll do all we can for him._

What did that mean? Isn’t that what they always said? At best, it was a practiced banality to salve the distress of the uninjured. A disposable term to keep loved ones from getting in the way.

 _Loved ones._ He’d have to think about the significance of that later.

Sherlock had left them to their work, channeling his emotional upheaval into a fury of activity, starting with hunting down Bayers. Sherlock had wanted to believe that John’s injuries hadn’t been the result of something so maddeningly random as an accident, but even he had to concede that the foresight and split‑second timing needed would have been impossible to plan with precision.

Driven to keep moving, he had returned to the scene of the accident. He hadn’t wanted to go, the patch of pavement now his mortal enemy, but he had needed to find the cause if not the reason.

Shining his torch on the road dotted with stray gravel, he had frantically tried to discern the one offending pebble that had skidded under John’s foot, sending him careening into the path of a cab. Sherlock had spent hours at the crossing, examining it from every angle, until he realized his folly and had laughed darkly at himself.

_What would I have done had I deduced the culprit? It isn’t as if I could torture it, causing it to feel the same pain that John must have felt. The same sharp-edged pain that I now feel._

Two strikes. Two leads that had gone nowhere, their only purpose to antagonize him. To make him feel as if he were letting down John.

_John._

Having the urge, no, the _need_ to go to the flat, he next went to the place that hadn’t become a home until John had moved in. But when he reached the doorway, Sherlock sensed he was entering a space so greatly changed as to be alien. He had gone in anyway, shaking off the feeling of inhospitableness. It was his home, their home. Surely it would help center him, at least momentarily. Instead, every object he saw, every scent that hit his nostrils reminded him that John was not there. That the man whose presence made Sherlock feel whole was not there.

And so, Sherlock had retreated back into the night, restless, lost. He had gone back to the park. He had gone back to the bench where he had last seen John’s eyes shine. Had last been reminded of the understated elegance in how he moved—

“Oy! Time to move along!”

The clatter of a nightstick banging the bench’s iron frame made Sherlock shoot to a sitting position—he hadn’t heard anyone approach.

“Oh, is that you, Mr. Holmes?”

The officer standing above him looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t worth the trouble to figure out where he’d seen him before, so Sherlock just nodded.

“Sorry. Thought you were someone sleeping rough. On a case, are you?” Rocking on his heels, the officer grinned broadly.

“Top secret,” Sherlock said, weary beyond what he thought he could bear. Hoping that being evasive would buy him back his solitude. “Don’t tell…” Rhoedes was his name. “Don’t tell, Rhoedes.”

Rhoedes brought a finger to his lips. “Our secret. Me and the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock hadn’t the bite in him to tell Rhoedes how wrong he was. There was nothing great about Sherlock Holmes.

As he listened to Rhoedes’ whistle fade into the night, Sherlock looked down at the dark, silent mobile in his hand. He had turned it off, the pain too great when he got no response after absentmindedly texting John. Should he bring his mobile back to life? What if it told him something that would forever devastate him? _But it could also tell you the nightmare will be over soon. That it was all a minor mishap, no matter how bad it looked. That soon, John will be back home. Back by my side._

War raged within him, pragmatism versus hope. What would the outcome be?

There was but one way to find out.

Sherlock pressed the power button, the screen a glaring white as it resuscitated itself.

~~**~~

Hesitating outside her office door, Nika thought how odd it was that she felt the need to ponder whether she should knock. But with two hot cups of coffee in her hands, she needed to decide. And decide soon. Lifting one of the cups to her mouth, she pursed her lips and gingerly sipped from the tiny hole, wishing she could mainline the caffeine; it felt as if it had been days since she had last slept.

She set the other cup on the floor, giving her a free hand to knock, but before she had the opportunity to set knuckle to door, the door swung open. She knew she was tired, but she didn’t think she was so tired she wouldn’t recognize the man she saw minutes ago. This was not Mycroft.

Lord, she needed rest.

The man who held the door open was tall, thin, and a contradiction of pale skin and midnight dark hair and clothing. As she walked into the office, she watched him watching her, studying her with an intensity that raised the hairs on her arms.

“And you are…?” Nika asked, continuing to hold the coffees instead of setting them down; they could be used as a weapon.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The man said his name as if that told her everything she needed to know.

 _Ahhh,_ she thought. And truly, that was everything she did need to know; he was related to Mycroft. There wasn’t much physical resemblance aside from height, but they both carried an air of card-carrying royalty, a preternatural self‑assurance that hadn’t been developed but that they had been born with.

“You’re here about Dr. Watson. What has Mycroft told you?” Nika felt it prudent to let him speak first. Besides, she thought, putting down the hot cups that must have seared off the skin of her palms, she had already violated her Hippocratic oath once tonight by talking to Mycroft; she didn’t want to double down on that transgression unnecessarily.

“He told me nothing.” Sherlock paced the room, his hands behind him clasped so tightly together that his fingers looked about to snap. “My brother said I needed to meet him at hospital; that John was out of surgery. You’re Rudnikov? A neurosurgeon? Why did John—”

Having no desire to prolong Sherlock’s anxiety, Nika broke in. “It was a precaution. Head injuries are common in these instances, and Mycroft called me to consult. We have…well, we’ve known each other for some time, and Mycroft trusts— He knows he can trust me.”

Nika watched Sherlock nod, looking as if he were formulating a question he might not want the answer to. _What does he know about the chip? Maybe he just knows Dr. Watson personally; he did call him John._ ~~~~

“And what did you find?” Sherlock finally asked, growing still. Intent on her answer.

Nika searched his face. Did he mean an object (the chip?) or medically (that Dr. Watson had a brain injury?). She turned to the door, praying for intervention. _Where is Mycroft?! Let him explain what needs to be explained. _

“Is there someone you’re waiting for? Someone else I should speak with?” Sherlock asked.

She decided to err on the side of caution.

“No, no. I’m so sorry. It’s been a long night, and I thought I heard Mycroft on his way. No sense going over everything twice.” Nika coughed a laugh, hoping Sherlock didn’t notice her nerves. But something told her, that like his brother, there was little that Sherlock missed. 

_Get it together, Nika. For god’s sake, you’re a trained neurosurgeon. No need to shuffle about as if you don’t know what you were talking about._

Straightening her back, Nika said, “Dr. Watson suffered a Grade 3 concussion. With proper care, there should be no long-term effects. I saw no bleeds, tears, or other traumatic brain injuries. His fibula was fractured; he has a sprained—"

“Where is he?”

It was now Sherlock who looked to the door and beyond; resuming his pacing, he walked the same staccato path back and forth. And for the first time, Nika noticed the weariness on his face, the concern etched around his eyes and mouth that, with an educated guess, she knew had not been there the day before. Sherlock didn’t care about the chip. He cared about Dr. Watson. John.

“He can’t have visitors, at least until morning. I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

“Not good enough.” Sherlock leaned down, closing the gap between their faces. “I can go room to room, disrupting the entire—”

_Christ. What was it with these Holmes brothers, bullying their way through life?_

Too tired to fight, and not wanting to write up the incident report required if she called security, she relented. “He’s in Recovery. Wing C. I’ll text to let them know you’re on your way.”

“Thank you,” he said, all trace of menace gone. His words so nakedly heartfelt that they made her almost cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she had needed to see someone as badly as Sherlock needed to see John.

~~**~~

Sherlock followed the maze of signs guiding him to Recovery, his legs rubbery, as if they might stop holding him up. Every step that took him closer to John, his stride grew less certain, the tension in him grew.

There was no logic to his physical reaction. He had no reason to believe that John would not mend. Yes, his impatience had prevented him from getting a complete report on John’s status, but certainly, Rudnikov would have led with life‑threatening injuries rather than reassurance. Wouldn’t she?

But as he was about to turn around, to run back to Rudnikov to get the full details of John’s condition, the sliding glass doors of the recovery unit appeared before him, beyond which he could see medical personnel going about their nightly business.

Beyond which was John.

His heart racing, Sherlock strode to the door. His foot hitting the hard surface when it didn’t open automatically, he put his hands out to catch himself.

One of the young staffers darted to the door, her pony tail bobbing behind her, and she pressed a button.

“You must be Mr. Holmes! Are you all right? You didn’t hit your head, did you?” Annoyingly perky for the time of night—for anytime, really—she prattled on, handing him a paper cap and gown. “You’d be surprised how many times people do that. The hospital really ought do something about the doors. Don’t want to have to find beds for visitors.”

_People’s lives are in this woman’s hands?_

“I’m rambling. I’m so sorry. Sometimes, it’s such a relief to get a new person to talk to. Mr. Watson is over here.”

 _Dr._ _Watson._

“I’m a records keeper.” Andi, her name tag read, walked off, her pony tail still flouncing as if it had a mind of its own. “No lives in _these_ hands, so don’t you worry. The people who do the real work here are saints. Your husband couldn’t be in better care.”

“He’s not—” _Ahh, Dr. Rudnikov._

Sherlock blocked out Andi’s chatter, his heart quickening each time they approached one of the handful of curtained-off beds, anticipating it would be where he would see John.

But finally, Andi slowed, pulling aside a curtain for Sherlock to pass through. “Here he is.”

Quickly finding John’s face, Sherlock released a shaky breath.

_He’s alive._

And he realized that to believe what he’d been told, he’d had needed to see John with his own eyes.

_He’s alive._

At that moment, there was nothing else that mattered.

Sherlock fought back the emotion he’d been holding in as it threatened to escape him, pressing the back of his hand to his nose to ward off the threat of tears. _I’d never hear the end of it._ Sherlock could imagine the ribbing he would get from John if he were to awake at that moment to a weeping Sherlock. “Sentimental? You?” John would ask. But there would be no unkindness, no bite to it. More like wonder.

Whether John was asleep or still under sedation, Sherlock couldn’t tell. All he really knew was that he needed to get closer. With the lightest of touches, Sherlock brushed the back of his fingers to John’s cheek, careful to avoid the bruises that covered far too much of him, the scrapes that had been tended to with ointment. Sherlock’s gaze lingered on the face that had become so important to him in the two-and-a-half months since John had moved in. _Is that all it’s been? It seems a lifetime._

His hand drifting down, Sherlock let it pause at the base of John’s neck, just above the clavicle, where it was warm, where he could feel the steady beat of John’s heart. He reached John’s hand, resting his own on it. He had no need to grasp it; everything he needed was in the simple yet intimate act of touching their two hands together.

There would be time for more later…

“Mr. Holmes?”

Reorienting himself to where he was, Sherlock turned to Andi. “A few more minutes.” That was what he said, though, in truth, he couldn’t see leaving until John left with him.

“There’s a Mr. Holmes out in the hallway.” Andi smiled apologetically. “He says it’s urgent.”

“Of course, he did. Everything is of ‘utmost urgency.’” Sherlock closed his eyes. Leaving John, even for a few minutes, was unthinkable. But if there was one thing he knew about his brother, Mycroft did not let anything, or anyone, deter him from what he wanted.

Sherlock opened his eyes and a gave John’s hand a gentle squeeze before reluctantly moving from the bed and heading to the main hallway.

“What’s so urgent it can’t wait?” Sherlock bit out.

Mycroft’s gaze dropped to his umbrella as he twisted its handle. And when he looked back up at Sherlock, as so often was his way, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

“When John wakes up, it is almost certain that he will not remember you.” 


	4. Chapter 4

“Even for you, Mycroft, that is a bit cruel. Now, what did you drag me out here for?” Sherlock glanced back through the doors to Recovery in the off chance he could catch a glimpse of John. He could not. And when Sherlock returned his attention to Mycroft, his brother’s face was devoid of expression, as if he were waiting for Sherlock to catch up.

“Rudnikov said nothing about amnesia,” Sherlock said, thinking through what she had told him. “She said—”

“It’s not amnesia, Sherlock." Mycroft paused. "John didn’t _lose_ his memory; it was surgically removed.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve got better things to do than to listen to your paranoid delusions. Let me know when you have something useful to say.” He spun on his heel, looking for the call button to bring someone to open the doors for him.

“I’ll be off then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The tip of Mycroft’s umbrella tapped the linoleum in perfect sync with his footsteps as he walked away.

His hand about to press the button, Sherlock said over his shoulder, “I’m not saying it could happen—it’s an absurd idea—but _if_ you’re right…how?”

Mycroft slowed without stopping. “Come outside with me. I’ll let you have a cigarette.”

Sherlock’s spine tingled. And as if he had been physically struck, he rocked back on his heel; Mycroft offered to smoke with him in only the direst situations.

Tearing off the paper gown and cap, he crumpled them into a ball and threw them onto the floor. Glancing into Recovery one more time before hastening after Mycroft. 

Outside, Sherlock took a cigarette from Mycroft’s offered pack. Accepted the light. And waited until he took several long drags into his lungs before he spoke.

“Tell me.”

“Dr. Rudnikov saw something suspicious in John’s brain scan. Knowing little more than that it did not belong where it was, she removed it.” Mycroft inhaled deeply on his own cigarette, blowing out a long stream of smoke and watching it rise up into the chill spring air. “It was a computer chip developed by the MOD for PTSD research.”

Processing this information, Sherlock waited for his brother to say more.

“MOD implanted the chips into soldiers going into battle.” Mycroft must have seen the expression on Sherlock’s face because he quickly added, “With their consent. The intent of the chip was to remove the memory of the horrific things soldiers see, to lessen the emotional impact.”

“John had PTSD until a couple of months ago,” Sherlock said. “And _I_ was the one who cured him. Ergo, MOD’s experiment didn’t work.”

“To the contrary. The experiment was a great success. So successful that the MOD is about to share their findings with the scientific community so that it can be used for the public and to explore its use in other applications.”

Sherlock flicked his now stubbled cigarette to the ground. “Would you get to the point? I haven’t time for the complete history of MOD in the modern world. Not to mention, it’s boring.” For perhaps the fifth time in the few minutes they’d been outside, Sherlock checked his mobile. Andi had promised (“pinkie swear!”) to text him when John awakened.

“You have an alert function, you know. It will sound when you get a text.” Mycroft stubbed his cigarette into a nearby urn and rested both hands on the handle of his umbrella. 

“I know,” Sherlock snapped, putting the device back in his pocket. Palming it so he could feel the vibration if he didn’t hear the alert. “Now, to your point? About MOD?”

“The point _is_ , dear brother, from what MOD could determine, the chip in your friend was one of about a dozen that had been stolen.

The hand Sherlock raised to light his second cigarette fell to his side. “Then how did it get implanted into John?”

_And why?!_

“That, I can’t answer. MOD isn’t certain when the chips went missing—sometime around a year ago, give or take a few months. The GPS hadn’t yet been activated, so there’s no way of knowing where they went. The serial number on John’s chip matches a number from the missing batch.” Mycroft looked down. “There was a bit of a mash-up at the agency during that time, and I daresay this is not the only resulting in, shall I say, misfortune.”

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, contemplating the ground before pulling himself upright and gracing Mycroft with an avian-like glare. “Let me see if I understand what you’re saying. A person, unknown, stole experimental—oh, let’s call them memory erasers, why not—from the British government, spiriting them off to implant them into whomever they please, and _you_ don’t know who implanted it into John?! Or when or why?!” With each accusation, Sherlock’s decibels rose. “ _And_ you don’t know if, now that it’s been removed, John will remember any of his life since WHO. KNOWS. WHEN? Have I got that straight, Mycroft? Have I?”

“Keep your voice down,” Mycroft hissed. “The whole of London needn’t know.”

Sherlock threw his arms up and shouted at the sky. “And what would you have me do, Mycroft? Say well, okay, ignore the fact that John is the victim of a diabolical madman who—”

His mobile vibrating, Sherlock stopped shouting mid-rant. _Andi!_

**I hear our little friend had an accident. Oops. So sad.**

Sherlock stared at his mobile, trying to comprehend what he read. The text clearly was not from Andi, and the screen displayed no caller name or number.

**_Who is this? SH_ **

Another text popped up, with only a link this time, and Sherlock clicked on it. It took him to a video. In the video was the face of a man—Tom Bayers. Sherlock turned his mobile sideways to enlarge the viewing area, and he saw Bayers’ lips moving, as if he were speaking. What was he saying?

“Sound. I need sound!” Sherlock barked.

Bayers moved closer to the camera ( _who’s holding the camera?_ ), and the camera went dark for a moment. When the camera turned back on, Bayers pulled away, on his face a look of confusion, then…what? Anger? Excitement? Whatever emotion it was, Sherlock saw only a flash of it before Bayer took off running, and the camera ran after him, bouncing as if attached to someone who also ran. They ran along the pathway in Regent’s Park. The camera panned the park.

_That’s ME. Running after Bayers._

Sherlock took in a sharp breath: this was video from the day before, when he and John were in the park putting out bait for Mayhew. And it was from John’s point of view. No, the camera was _on_ John.

In horrified fascination, Sherlock continued to watch, knowing what he was about to see but unable to tear his attention away. He needed to see exactly what had happened to John.

Unexpectedly, the video’s sound came to life, and Sherlock heard the traffic, heard John’s heavy breathing as he ran, John’s feet pounding the pavement. He heard the impact of a two-ton vehicle hitting solid human flesh. A grunt that could have come only from John.

And after a blur of motion, the video went black. Words appeared, like a film’s end credits: **Thanks for the memories. Love, Simon.**

With sickening clarity, Sherlock realized that what he had seen wasn’t a video. It was John’s memory.

 ** _Who is this!_** Sherlock typed furiously, but his text bounced back “number unknown.” _How can that be? I just got the texts._

“Sherlock?”

If Sherlock hadn’t known any better, he might have thought Mycroft’s voice held a trace of concern.

“Do the chips transmit the information they gather?” Sherlock didn’t know how the answer could be anything other than yes, but he needed to confirm it. Needed to have one focal point from which he could start making sense of what he had seen. 

Mycroft nodded. “MOD’s chips collect the memories and transmit them, along with corresponding biodata, to experts who determine which memories should be destroyed and which should be kept.”

Tapping a knuckle against his mouth, Sherlock thought aloud. “Since John’s chip has stopped transmitting data, whoever is on the other end is going to want to retrieve the chip, so we need to act fast. The GPS is likely still active, telling them where John is, so we need to move him to a safe place. And we need to destroy the chip after downloading the information. Mycroft, you’re the one who’s going to have to do that. Provide me a copy.” His hand stilled, Sherlock asked whoever might be listening, “What have I missed?” What else did he need to do _right now_ to ensure John’s safety?

“…it’s understood, then. I’ll call again in twenty minutes,” Mycroft ended his call, tucking the mobile into the inside pocket of his coat. 

“Since he won’t be safe at the flat, Sherlock, I’ve made arrangements for John to be moved to Dr. Rudnikov’s home in Belgravia. No one would think to look for him there,” Mycroft said. “She and her husband are moving house but have agreed to leave some furnishings for you; we’ll ship them later. I’ll make sure John will be attended to round-the-clock by highly skilled nurses, and he’ll have a security detail. Ahhh, and here she is.” Mycroft nodded at the woman walking toward them from the building.

“She who?” Seeing only Andi, Sherlock looked past her for the woman Mycroft spoke of.

“Meet Andi Rasperson, MI-5. The staff here know her as a records keeper, as I see no need to divulge her true identity. For our immediate purposes, we’ll say you’re hiring her as your assistant while you stay at the Belgravia house.” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. “Unless I surmise wrongly…”

“Of course, I’m going with John. How soon can we move him?”

With a pen poised in one hand and a notebook crooked in the other, Andi glanced at her notes. “We’ll have to wait a couple of hours. We’ll transfer Dr. Watson from here to a removal van that is scheduled to arrive at the Rudnikov’s at 7 a.m. to load their belongs. As we speak, he is being moved temporarily to a limited access area of the building; it’s an old bomb shelter. Of course, there are details still to be hammered out, but does this plan meet with your approval?” Andi looked up for a response.

Sherlock nodded yes, his thoughts already shifting elsewhere. He wanted to see John, keep his unspoken promise of not leaving him alone, but that would have to wait.

He needed to start hunting down Simon.

~~**~~

Sherlock hovered just inside as medical staff coordinated their efforts, moving hospital bed and equipment seamlessly from inside the removal van to the Rudnikov’s house—all the while protecting John from unnecessary jostling. It was no small effort, one that Sherlock endured with anxiety.

Feeling a hand on his arm, he looked down. Andi.

“There’s nothing you can do to help right now,” she said. “Why not sit over there by the fire. You can still keep an eye on things.”

The overstuffed chair did look quite inviting, Sherlock had to admit. And the view of John would be unobstructed. “Excellent idea. I think I might enjoy having an assistant. Speaking of which, we could use a few things from the flat. Clothes for each of us, my laptop—”

“Done and done. They’re in the bags over there, along with some post. And no, I didn’t wrinkle your suit; it’s hanging in the hall closet. I didn’t know where you’d want everything, so I thought I’d keep them handy for you.”

While Andi talked, Sherlock’s gaze settled on John’s face, physically aching because he had not been able to prevent the accident. That John had to bear… _this_. His only consolation being that John had woken briefly, an hour ago. _Why hadn’t I been there?!_ And in the background hummed vague guilt that his overriding concern seemed to be for himself...that he missed John. That John might not remember him.

Hadn’t John been trying to teach him about empathy? About thinking of _others’_ feelings? _Clearly, I’ve not fully internalized the concept. Wake up, John! Teach me._

_Please._

Draping his coat over the back of the chair, Sherlock sank into the seat, his laptop balanced on his knees. Opening his email, he reviewed what he had sent himself from Mycroft’s account, trying to pinpoint what paths he still needed to go down in his pursuit of Simon. In the last few hours, he had searched MOD and Scotland Yard databases for anyone with Simon in any part of their name—staff, soldiers, perpetrators, contractors. The list was surprisingly long, and as 7 a.m. neared, Sherlock had set the search aside, thinking he needed to approach it from a different angle.

He closed his eyes, resting them for a few moments as he warmed beside the fire.

It brought him a measure of peace that he and John shared the same space. That he could feel John’s actual presence, not the manufactured one when he had laid on the park bench. Sherlock drifted in and out of a fog of sleep. In his less lucid moments, he was at home with John on Baker Street, arriving back at the flat after an exhilarating day of sleuthing together…

…together…

Sherlock awoke with a start, blurrily reading that his watch said 1:38 p.m. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he pushed himself up in the chair and looked in John’s direction, relief hitting him as he saw John say a few words to the nurse.

_He’s awake!_

Rising to his feet, Sherlock pulled his jacket down, brushed out what creases he could, and rushed to the end of the bed. Not trusting himself to speak coherently, or not to say something “not quite good,” he smiled at John, hoping that, at least in this instance, it was an appropriate thing to do. It was so hard to know sometimes. 

John looked down the bed to Sherlock, a puzzled look on his face.

Staying silent for what felt like forever, Sherlock gave John time to place him. After all, John had just the day before had a serious accident. But the combined strain of holding the smile and of not speaking grew to be too much for him.

“Sherlock,” he said. “I’m Sherlock.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Yeah, I remember; you’re, uhm,” John winced, arching his back to readjust his torso. “Christ, I feel like I’ve been hit by a lorry.”

“A black cab, actually.”

The look of annoyance shot his way buoyed Sherlock until John said, “You’re Mike’s friend. You’re here because…?”

Sherlock shifted on his feet, reeling from the implication that John didn’t remember that they were flatmates. Workmates. Friends.

_Everything but lovers. If only I hadn’t…_

Sherlock inhaled deeply before he spoke, bracing himself for what he was about to say. The thought of saying it cutting him deeply.

“We’re colleagues,” he said with a matter-of-factness he hoped would deter questions. He hadn’t considered what he would tell John if John didn’t remember him. And partial memory was a twist he hadn’t considered at all.

“Oh,” John said.

_Was that disappointment I heard?_

Nurse Geoff interrupted Sherlock’s line of thought, unfolding a squeaky screen beside John’s bed. 

“Time for a dressing change.” Geoff smiled, his bulk clearing the way of John’s visitor. “Then it will be time for some rest, I think; he looks a bit tuckered. You can chat after that?”

Sherlock stared at the room divider for a moment. Spinning around, he headed for the chair, flopping into it.

**_Where is the download, Mycroft? I need to see it. Now! SH_ **

He jumped with a start at the knock on the patio door behind him.

**_Someone’s at the_ **

Before he could finish his message, a text from Andi popped onto the screen.

**Mycroft is here.**

**_Tell him to give us warning next time! SH_ **

**So sorry, Sherlock. It won’t happen again. We have a technician coming this afternoon to install an alarm on the back patio. I was checking on a man walking down the street; he isn’t a known local.**

The second knock was more insistent.

“And hello to you, too,” Mycroft said as Sherlock stepped onto the patio, closing the door behind him. “Why so sour?”

“Andi hasn’t alarmed the house yet. What if you had been Simon?” _Wait. John said he spoke with Mycroft that night._

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he looked down the length of his nose. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”

“If you did this, Mycroft, I will spend the rest of my days—"

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft said, “I may want to know what you’re up to but imagine the tedium of going through hours and hours of Dr. Watson’s memories. I shudder at the thought. Speaking of which, I have something for you.” Mycroft handed Sherlock a box. “The chip.”

Sherlock took the box that was small enough to sit easily on his open palm. “I thought you were going to download it?”

“Too much data. There’s a device to read it and—I don’t know, wires and stuff—to connect it to your laptop. A backup wasn’t created, so there’s no need to tell you to be extremely careful.”

“And yet, you did. GPS?”

“All transmission ability has been disabled.”

Sherlock held the box, feeling the weight of it. Not only the physical weight but the responsibility. _I’m literally holding John’s life in my hands._ It was not the first time he had done so but never had it felt so intimate. So complete. 

Too, the box filled him with the anticipation of discovering who Simon was and why he had targeted John. And of discovering that, in all likelihood, John had been a pawn in Simon’s game. _I’m Simon’s real target._

“You’re wrong, you know.” Mycroft broke into his musings.

“What?”

“I said, it’s not your fault. You could not have foreseen any of this.”

Sherlock grunted. “How would you know?” The box grew heavier; he needed to start viewing. “Have you watched any of it?”

“No. The job is better left to you.” Moving toward the patio’s outer door, Mycroft paused. “If you need assistance …”

“I know where to find you. Oh, and Mycroft?”

“Hmmm?”

“How are the chips implanted? It wasn’t done surgically. John remembers me, so it happened since we met. The night of, I think. Which is why I—”

“Yes, I can see why you might.” Mycroft held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment before continuing. “But as to how it was introduced, from my understanding, in the early stages of the experiment, the chips were surgically implanted. Later, they developed the means to inject it, using some computer mumbo jumbo to direct it to where it needed to be. Amazing what they can do these days. Well, I’m off.”

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, his mind on what information the chip held.

Connecting the hardware to his laptop and putting his earbuds in, Sherlock started watching. At first, the screen was black, but soon he saw a desk appear; it was a sideways view, as if John were lying on a bed.

_This is John’s bedsit before he moved into the flat. This aligns with him remembering me as Mike’s friend, not his flatmate._

Sherlock watched intently, first hearing a deep groan and then seeing an arm and hand come into view and sweeping past John’s face. Movements suggesting that John was rubbing his neck.

_Could his neck be the injection site?_

John sits up, stretches his arms out in front of him and then checks his mobile. The screen says Sherlock.

_He’d already entered me as a contact!_ Sherlock derided himself. _What am I ? 12 ? Pay attention._

The display’s date is January 29. Sherlock noted the time; later, he would correlate it with other of the night’s activities to determine for how long John had been unconscious. Sherlock kept watching.

John’s movements feel sluggish as he goes from bed to desk to retrieve his gun, but they become more confident as he checks himself in a mirror.

Sherlock paused the video, lingering on John’s reflection, before pushing Play and watching him finger-comb his hair and head outside to join Anthea in the car. Without saying a word about anything that had been amiss. Perhaps John hadn’t realized anything had been.

_There has to be something I saw but did not observe._

Sherlock replayed the first minutes of the chip’s recording over and over, frustrated, pausing it every few seconds to search for clues to Simon’s identity. But nothing he saw indicated who might have accosted John. Or why. Plucking the earbuds from his ears, Sherlock sank into the chair, drumming his fingers on its arms. Trawling his memory for someone who he had offended so grievously that they would come at him this way, through someone he had known fewer than twenty-four hours.

_Well, that list is long. _

Glancing down at his mobile, he was puzzled to see he'd received a text. _I didn't hear an alert._

**You’ve hurt my feelings - You haven’t opened the package I left for you at your flat. But you can make it up to me by opening it now. I even attached a little note for you. Have fun! Love, Simon**

_Package? What package?_

**_Was there a package at the flat for John or me? SH_ **

Andi immediately texted back. **It’s in the Tesco bag with the rest of the post.**

Sherlock sprang up, dashing to the two bags still sitting a few feet away. Rummaging through the Tesco bag, he dived under the folded shirts and pants ( _next stop, shower_ ). Ignoring the letter-sized envelopes, he seized the cardboard roll and tore off the envelope taped to it. Ripping open the envelope, he found a handwritten note inked on paper with a geometric design bordering its edges.

_Bold choice, sending a handwritten note._ Sherlock held the note by the corner as he set ut down in front of him; perhaps they could get fingerprints off of it. Doubtful, but most criminals weren’t known for their attention to detail.

My Dearest Sherlock,

I know you must miss your dear Dr. Watson’s companionship while he’s out of commission, so I offer you a little something to amuse you until he’s up and about again.

In the packet is a puzzle. When you solve the puzzle, send a picture of it to the email address in the packet. I know, I know. You’ll try to trace the IP address. Go ahead. It will be a waste of your time, but a detective has to do what a detective has to do. I would expect no less of you. In fact, that is what is going to make playing with you so fun!

“Hmmm,” I can hear you asking yourself. “What is the point of solving the puzzle?” Dear Sir, the point is that when you solve the puzzle, you get a treat, a special clip of John’s memories that I excised from his chip. The catch is that the slower you are in completing the puzzle, the more I will edit from the clip. (You know I downloaded a copy of the chip; you’ve already seen my handiwork. What you don’t know though is how much or WHAT I cut out.)

GOOD question – HOW will I know when you have opened the package and your time starts? Ho hum. If I told you ALL my secrets, it wouldn’t be any fun, would it.

Sherlock swiveled his gaze around the room, texting Andi when he didn’t see anything obvious. **_Sweep the entire house for cameras and microphones. Immediately. SH_**

**We did that early this morning before anything was moved in. There was nothing.**

**_Do it again. Do it EVERYTIME anything or anyone comes anywhere near here. People, food, post. My brother._ **

**I can see your point. It’s sometimes difficult to tell if Mycroft falls in the People category.**

Sherlock sniggered. _I_ _might be able to tolerate Andi after all_. He kept reading.

Oh, yes! _Another_ good question. (You can’t hear me applauding your cunning but be assured I am!) – How do you know you can trust me? You can’t know for certain, but what have you got to lose? Oops, that’s right, John’s memories. I’m sure they have some value to you. Did you find the memory card in the envelope? I’m giving you a bonus clip to show you what a nice person I am!

I’ll wait.

Sherlock found the micro card and inserted it into his laptop. The video was short, no more than two minutes long, and was dated several days after John moved in. He had gone down to Speedy’s to pick up lunch.

You can tell from John’s reflection in the window that it is from his memory. I agree it is a boring memory. Yawn. But that’s part of the game! For every puzzle you solve, the memories will get more interesting and, shall I say, more personal. I think you’ll quite enjoy it.

Ta!

Love, Simon

Sherlock pried off the end of the tube that Simon had sent, dumping its contents: one ( _one?_ ) knee-high sock, a small furry ball, two small circles of felt, and a foot or so of braided rope that had been frayed at the ends. He peered into the tube. _There should be a note, something to send me at least in the right direction. This is just a pile of nonsense._

Andi slowly walked through the room, sweeping her bug detector in wide swaths. Sherlock's eyes followed as she neared the screen at John’s bed.

“Oh! Hello, Dr. Watson! I’m so sorry. I thought you’d be sleeping.” She started backing away. “I’ll leave you—"

“I think my expectation of privacy is pretty low at this point. Is, uhm, Sherlock around?”

Sherlock had had his ears perked to the brief conversation, debating whether to insert himself, but at John’s question, he was up and across the room in a flash, slowing only when he would be in John’s line of sight. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

When he rounded the screen, he saw a man who appeared to have been hit by a lorry, but the rest John had gotten in the last few hours had much improved his skin color, and his eyes looked brighter. He looked more like the John that Sherlock missed.

John looked at Sherlock thoughtfully, as if trying to place him. Not as if he didn’t know who Sherlock was, but that he had seen him before and couldn’t quite figure out from where.

This time, Sherlock held his tongue. Not everyone’s brain worked at the same speed as his own and, with John at least, he needed to learn the art of patience. An art that no doubt was going to be difficult to learn, but for John…

“You told me your name is Sherlock,” John said.

“It is,” Sherlock said, for the first time noticing John had something in his left hand. His mobile. Had he been doing a search? _Well, there goes that cat out of the bag. _

In his unease, Sherlock fidgeted with the things Simon had sent him.

“Is that for a case?” John asked, looking as if he were going to say more, but thinking better of it and closing his mouth.

_A case. So, he did do a search._

Sherlock moved from the end of John’s bed to the side, giving John a better view of what he held. “It’s a puzzle. A sock—yes, one!—a fuzzy ball, two dots, and rope. Ideas?”

“It’s a sock puppet,” John said, taking the pieces from Sherlock. And pulling the sock onto his arm, he balanced the eyes and hair on his fist before they fell off. He added sheepishly, “My sister made them when we were kids.”

__“Quite clever of you.” _My conductor of light._ Sherlock looked at him long enough that John looked away.

“Erm, not really. It doesn’t take a genius… Oh, sorry. Well, here.” John picked up his mobile. “I did a search, and it seems we, well, we did— I mean do, know each other.”

The screen on John’s mobile displayed an article featuring a picture of Sherlock with John at his side. The caption read, _Famous Consulting Detective Takes on Partner._

Before Sherlock could sort out what he was going to say, a text alert sounded.

**My, my, you’re slow. Perhaps I should ask John to help you. Love, Simon.**

**_Stay away from John!_** But as had happened before, the text bounced back. _What game is Simon playing?! How does he block my texts so quickly?_ Sherlock hit Resend, hoping it had been a glitch and that his text would go through this time. Hoping that Simon didn’t text John.

But he was too late.

Frowning, John asked, “Who’s Simon? And why is he texting me to tell you hello?”


	6. Chapter 6

“That’s not important right now. Give me your hand!”

“What’re you doing?”

Sherlock caught John’s hand, coupling his own to the back of it and curling it into a fist, the thought fleeting through his brain just how warm and _sturdy_ John’s hand was. _Not the time, Sherlock._ Shoving the sock back onto John’s arm, Sherlock nabbed the bits of face and hair that had fallen off, slapping them on in a Picasso‑esque fashion; Simon hadn’t demanded perfection. And capturing the image haphazardly on his mobile, he ran across the room to Simon’s note for the email address and hit Send. Almost immediately, a text with a link arrived.

**Ha rah! I knew you could do it! And for your efforts, as promised, here is a clip. Until next time. Love, Simon**

Sherlock sucked in a lung full of air and breathed it back out slowly, as winded as if he’d run a mile at breakneck speed, but it must have been that in those brief moments it took to get and send the picture he had forgotten to breath. _How stupid to have not sent it immediately! It cannot happen again._

“You all right?” John asked. “Damn this divider. I can’t see a thing.” 

Sherlock waited until he was breathing again before saying, “All’s well. The case, you know.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Answers pinged off the walls of Sherlock’s skull. _Yes! Be well! Remember ME! Help me to find Simon and, when we do, put a bullet between his eyes._ But he wasn’t sure how much he should say out loud. Should he tell John his own life was in danger? Should he tell John that he was his best friend and that he needed him in ways he didn’t have words for? Should he tell John that his opinion was the only one that mattered?

None of the above.

Despite what John saw on the internet, he seemed to remember only that Sherlock was a friend of a friend. Sherlock hadn’t much experience with having a friend, but he was fairly certain that a person didn’t spill all of one’s secrets the moment one met them. He and John were friends—or at least they had been before the accident—and even they withheld information from each other. It hadn’t been necessary to do more.

Breathlessness hit him again, as if all the air had been sucked from the room and, desperate to escape, Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff, swinging it around his body and sliding into it. He needed to move. He needed to breathe fresh air.

He needed to think.

Passing John on the way to the front door, Sherlock couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at the man in the bed who looked exactly like John but was only the shell of his friend. He needed _John_ right now, and this was not John.

“I’m going out,” Sherlock said, reserving his glance for Myrtle, the night nurse who was slumped over, asleep, on the arm of the chair she sat in. “My number’s in your mobile,” he added, speeding out the door to avoid the possibility of having to say anything else.

~~**~~

Half way to 221b, Sherlock slowed his pace, deliberating his next move. Knowing that running away was not the answer. _What is the question?_ He turned, taking a tentative step in the direction of Nika’s house, coming to a full stop and looking around him. Even at this late hour, the city hummed with activity. Lamps glowed in living rooms and bedrooms, shaping occupants into shadows, and workers changing shift walked the pavement. Sherlock looked up, a soft mist dampening his face, but the stars he sought hid behind clouds reflecting the city’s light.

Sherlock moved on. In his pocket, he gripped the mobile that had been in his hand since he left the house, knowing the sooner he identified Simon, the sooner he could end the menacing messages. The sooner John would be safe. But things weren’t always that simple, were they. To know that Simon had rummaged amongst John’s memories, using his own twisted logic to decide what was useful, what was appealing, repulsed Sherlock, making him feel somehow complicit in Simon’s violation.

Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t keep putting it off.

Spotting a small park, Sherlock chose a bench several meters off the pavement, swiping away the larger drops of water before sitting down. Leaning on his knees, he held the mobile sideways, ready to view the memories. First, though, he needed to take care of something.

“You don’t have to keep lurking. You can join me, you know.”

A figure emerged from behind a bush and, with a you-caught-me grin, Andi joined him on the bench.

“You’re supposed to be John’s security detail, not mine,” Sherlock said. “But you’re not MI-5, are you.”

Andi shrugged her shoulders and offered a smile that said she was more amused than embarrassed. “I told Mycroft you’d see through that. How did you know?”

“My suspicions were aroused when Mycroft didn’t trip an alarm. But then when you swept the room for bugs with a TV remote control, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out.”

Andi looked and him, and instead of responding, lifted her face skyward and inhaled deeply. “I love nights like this. It’s such a cliché, but spring really is in the air. The fragrance. The feel of it.”

They sat in silence for several minutes until Andi spoke, sounding as if she were pondering out loud. “It has to be hard. You’ve got a bad man after you and a puckery brother who’s all up in your business.” Leaning toward Sherlock, she added, “I presume they’re not one and the same,” before leaning back to her own space. “And the man you’re in love with was almost killed. All that’d be enough to send anyone off.”

In a tone stripped of all friendliness, Sherlock said, “It’s none of your business, and it’s time for you to leave. You can tell my _keeper_ that you did your duty. I’m clean.”

Undeterred, Andi appraised him openly.

“I’m going to say one more thing, and then I’ll shut up.” Seeing the skepticism on his face, she said, “I will. Really. But the thing I think about is, John may not remember the time he spent with you, but he hasn’t forgotten who he is. He’s still the same person, isn’t he?”

Sherlock stared down at the screen in his hands. Swiping his thumb back and forth across it, he didn’t look up until Andi was gone, left with the faint feeling that he was more alone than before she had sat down.

_Enough. It’s time to get to work._

When he clicked the link to the newest video, as soon as he saw the setting, he closed it and leaned back against the bench for support. Stunned that, of all the many, many hours of memories that Simon had to choose from, he had chosen _this_ one to send. The one that haunted Sherlock. The one that he had planned, on the day of the accident, to rectify. Now, that memory sat in a virtual cloud somewhere, used as a pawn in an increasingly malicious game.

Bracing himself, Sherlock reopened the link. The clip was short, from the first night he and John knew each other.

For the first time, Sherlock noticed that viewing John’s memories was dissimilar to viewing video on his computer or a show on television; with the latter two, the resolution was uniform. This video mimicked real life. In it, Sherlock could see a distinct focal point with a higher resolution than the hazier peripheral vision. _I can see not only what John saw but what he was actually looking at._ A disconcerting notion, but at some point, that knowledge might become a powerful tool.

Sherlock restarted the clip from the beginning. And because he didn’t feel it was all masochistic enough, he put his earbuds in; John would be speaking, and he wanted to stream him directly into his brain. But as soon as John started talking, Sherlock ripped the buds out. _That’s not his voice!_ When the shock wore off, he reinserted the earbuds and listened again, noting that the voice wasn’t entirely different to John’s, that there were comparable inflections and depth. The better question, though, would be _why_ would Simon replace John’s “audio”?

The answer seemed glaringly obvious when Sherlock finally stumbled upon it. _When we hear our voices from inside ourselves, they’re different to when we hear a recording._ And Sherlock realized he would never fully capture the complexities of John’s memories, no matter what he saw John watching or heard John saying or listening to. While the discovery of the focused vision was useful, because a memory’s data was made up of so much more than what one saw or heard, John’s memories wouldn’t reveal his feelings or what he was thinking. What sensations arose in his body.

One more time, Sherlock started the clip from the beginning. Earbuds in—it was the closest he could get to John.

The memory was of the first night, at Angelo’s. They sat at the window table, John’s back to the window and Sherlock facing it … and John. John’s attention focused on Sherlock. His eyes. His hair. His cheekbones.

His mouth.

Sherlock warmed under the scrutiny that felt so immediate though it had happened months ago. He watched John watching him, letting John’s words wash over him—long ago, he’d memorized the words he’d thought about a thousand times—until he heard John say, “So, you’ve got a boyfriend then?” Sherlock paused the video.

This was the point at which Sherlock always paused his own memories, wishing he could return to that time to change his answer. “No,” he had said. All well and good. And true. But in typical Holmes fashion, he’d had to elucidate, inadvertently erecting a barrier that neither he nor John had quite known how to navigate. 

“… I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...” That was how he had responded, quite certain at the time that he spoke the truth. Not knowing the extent to which John would become an asset, not an impediment, to his work. Their work. John would not have been an impediment in _any_ capacity.

And now, because of his stubbornness and because of an accident that might or might not be random, both he and John had been robbed of time together.

With dawn beginning to brighten the skyline, Sherlock wallowed in self-pity as he half-heartedly watched the video again and again, obsessively looking for clues to Simon’s identity. And just when he thought that this video, too, would bear no clues, he spotted someone in the restaurant’s background who looked vaguely familiar. Because John never focused on that patron, the resolution was fuzzy enough that he couldn’t make the face out, but…was that person watching _John_? Sherlock couldn’t be certain, but it appeared as if that person was looking in John’s direction each of the few times John panned the restaurant.

_Finally, a lead!_

With renewed determination, Sherlock bounded from the bench, his steps brisk as he returned to the house. He needed to devour as much of the chip’s video as soon as he could; if the person in the restaurant was, as Sherlock suspected, watching John, that person was bound to be in more of John’s memories.

~~**~~

When Sherlock slipped through the front door, the house was still, its lights dimmed, the rising sun setting the windows aglow. Seeing Myrtle asleep in the same position as when he’d left, Sherlock had the impulse to slam the door behind him, but to do so would have awoken John, too. He quietly seated the door’s latch into its plate and turned the upper bolt.

Stopping by the bed on his way to his laptop, he studied John. The bruises turning shades of blue and purple. The scrapes losing their angry red coloring and the deeper ones bandaged or forming scars. A thin blanket outlined the splint and dressing on John’s left leg; soon, a cast would replace the splint, after the threat of infection at the incision site had passed. 

Sherlock took the mobile from John’s open palm and, as he did, it lit up. _Oh John, how many times have I told you to put a passcode on it?_ “What, and deprive you of the fun of cracking it? How else would you stoke your superiority complex?” John would have said, feigning annoyance. Wait. He had been feigning, hadn’t he?

To Sherlock’s surprise, sitting on the screen was a picture of himself from John’s photo stream. He swiped through the collection—there were dozens of pictures of him. At crime scenes. In the flat. Pictures that were clearly about Sherlock and not the surrounding scene. 

He hadn’t known.

He hadn’t known about John taking the pictures, and he hadn’t known that … _All this time, I thought it was only a flirtation on his part, an attraction. Had he been in love with me?_ Only the besotted paid such close attention, took such time and care. _Was he looking at them to see if he could remember? Could he?_

Sherlock pulled the blanket up over John’s arms and chest, touched his hand ever so lightly to John’s face, thinking how different these simple acts would have been in other circumstances. A heavy sigh left him and he mouthed, _Me too, John. Me too._

As he heard Myrtle stirring, he stepped away from the bed before she could start talking to him; it was time to get to John’s chip. He had a desperate need to shower, but he would put a few hours in and then head upstairs for a shower and nap; he needed to be alert to do a proper job.

Taking off his coat and settling himself comfortably into what had become his chair, Sherlock set his laptop on his knees and powered it on. Opening the plug-in that let him read the chip, he clicked Start, but instead of seeing the video begin to play, a message popped onto the screen: File Empty. Insert File.

Sherlock clicked Start again. Sometimes these things had a bug that prompted the user give it another try. But he got the same error message. _Perhaps the chip unseated itself somehow._ Removing the plug-in from the USB port, he pulled out the panel that held the chip holder.

And disbelieving what he saw, it took several long moments for it to register that the chip holder—and the chip—were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will share with you that I'm excited for the next chapter. Our boys will start coming together. Finally!


	7. Chapter 7

Lightheaded, Sherlock would have laughed had it not been so absurd—John’s memories had now been stolen twice. But if he laughed, he would have felt as if the very act of doing so might tip him over the edge. And that, he couldn’t afford to do.

Snapping himself from his haze, he made for the stairs, running up them two at a time until he reached the third floor. MI-5 or not, Andi had a bank of screens from which she watched the CCTV footage. As Sherlock burst into the room, Andi spun around, startled by the commotion.

“What’s wrong?” For once, her smile was nowhere to be found.

“Someone breached the house. They stole the chip.” He could see from her face there was no need to explain the repercussions. He leaned over her, intent on the screens. “These are in real time?”

“Yeah. We can review them from when you left the house, fast forwarding the footage. There are cameras at both the front and the back of the house. About what time did you leave?” Her fingers raced over the keyboard as Sherlock told her to start at 3 a.m.

Already punching in a number on his mobile, he asked over his shoulder, “You can monitor both replays at once?” He didn’t wait for an answer; she would simply have to make do on her own.

On the other end of the line, Mycroft skipped the pleasantries. “You do know what time—"

“The chip is gone.”

“Didn’t I tell you to be careful?” Mycroft said dryly.

“And who provided me with a fake MI-5 and an unalarmed house?”

“Placing blame won’t help.”

“And yet, you’re particularly skilled at it.” Sherlock moved to the hallway, where he had more room to pace. “Don’t distract me. Simon knows we’re here; the theft was too precise. Whoever came in knew exactly what to look for and seemed to have thought my laptop too much trouble to drag along with them, which means they must have been on foot. I’m not fond of your henchmen, but the house has to be secured, Mycroft. No more of your games. You know the stakes.”

“It’s a tremendous amount of trouble, and risk, for ordinary memories, don’t you think?”

“Are they, though?” Sherlock countered. “John had access to most everything I did—”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“Of course not! What I saw, he saw. That’s what I mean. Not everything, of course, but he has been part of every case I’ve worked on in the last two-and-a-half months, and there have been unsavory and powerful people who haven’t been fond of the outcomes.”

“The world you live in,” Mycroft sighed.

“Yes, the world _I_ live in, with unsavory and powerful people, is not entirely unlike the world _you_ live in.”

“Let’s stop quibbling, shall we?”

Sherlock could almost see Mycroft studying his nails, putting on an air of innocence as he deflected Sherlock’s accusation. For the sake of expediency, he’d let his brother have this one. “And we need a crew to move John and his equipment to one of the upper floors. He’ll be safer there.”

“You do know they’re not after your Dr. Watson.”

“Yes, Mycroft, I know they’re not after John.” Sherlock shut his eyes; his brother could be so tiresome. “But as long as he’s in my proximity, he’s in danger.”

As if choosing his words carefully, Mycroft spoke slowly. “Have you considered separate locations?”

Sherlock bristled. “It’s not an option.”

“Shouldn’t that be John’s decision?”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Now when can your people be here?”

“They’re on their way. And Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Sherlock!” Andi stage-whispered from the doorway. “I found something.”

Mycroft still talking, Sherlock ended the call, following Andi into the room.

“Here, at 0347.” The frame Andi had paused on suggested a gap in the back gate. She restarted the footage in slow motion. “The gate at the mews is opening, and in comes the intruder.”

“Can you zoom in on his face?” Sherlock stood next to Andi, his hands splayed on his hips.

The build and movements of the person in the video suggested a male, likely in the 25-to-40-year-old range. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and trainers—in other words, the uniform for half the population of London. And the footage was in black and white, so that was of no help.

Andi zoomed in, but the intruder was careful to keep his face down, hidden in the hood. “Shite. Criminals are so stupid; why can’t they be stupid enough to show their faces. Maybe he dropped his wallet.” Andi laughed. “I read about that all the time, that that’s how they catch people.”

“Excellent thought. I’ll have Mycroft’s people check it out. First, I want to see how he gets into the house.”

The camera followed the intruder as he walked from the gate, across the walled‑in courtyard, to the sliding door. It was difficult to tell exactly what he was doing, but it appeared he had pulled a piece of metal from his pocket and jimmied the door open.

The hackles of Sherlock’s instincts rose. _It feels far too convenient. It’s a multi‑million‑pound property, and a prowler waltzes in as if he had a key?_

“I’m heading downstairs,” Sherlock said. “Go over our friend’s clothing—”

Andi pointed at the screen. “By friend, you mean—”

“Yes, the intruder. Who else?” _Really. The people Mycroft has working for him these days._

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Just making sure.”

Sherlock ignored the remark. “Go over every bit of him, looking for brand names, tattoos, skin abnormalities. A signature movement. Anything that might help us find him, or at least identify him if we do.”

“Sherlock?”

“What.” He bit the word out, quite certain he hadn’t the patience for a detective in training.

“Do you mean like this?” Andi had zoomed in on a tattoo circling the intruder’s ring finger.

Sherlock fought to keep his face blank; it wouldn’t do any good to praise her too highly. _This is good, though. Very good._

“Yes, like that,” Sherlock said, his mobile pinging a text. _What does Mycroft want now? You’d think for once he could—_

His thumbs ready to blast his brother, they froze. The text wasn’t from Mycroft; it was from John.

**It’s time to tell me the truth.**

~~**~~

Sipping his coffee, Simon checked his watch again; the courier ran five minutes late. So far. The wait would be well worth it, though; any minute now, he would have it back.

He couldn’t say it hadn’t been heart stopping when he had concluded that disc 792 had been removed from its host. If the disc were to be traced back to him, he would never be a free man again; he would be locked up for life. And it really would be a pity; he was _this_ close. With a little more fine-tuning, he would be as well-known—and _rich_ —as Gates and Musk. 

_Ha! Here comes the courier!_

Approaching Simon, the courier’s gaze flitted around the bustling food court as if ready to run at the slightest provocation. Sitting down, he laid an envelope between them on the table.

Simon didn’t want to appear too eager, but he itched to have the disc back. He grabbed the envelope. With a powerful magnifier, he examined the contents—stamped onto the disc was its code: MODD 792.

“Thanks, mate. Cracking work,” Simon said, his exuberance threatening to burst from him. He replaced the disc’s envelope with another that held £5500 and nudged it to the middle of the table. “I added a bonus for you.”

“My pleasure, but I’m not your mate. That’s over.”

The legs of Simon’s chair squealed against the floor as he pushed it back, tipping his head and saying, “Later, _mate_ ,” as he left.

~~**~~

**It’s time to tell me the truth.**

Sherlock looked uncertainly from John’s text toward Andi, silently pleading for an out. Not because he didn’t want to see John, but because the truth had never come easy to him. And certainly not when talking about … _feelings._ The mere word made him shudder.

“Andi, I—”

“Go ahead, I’ve got this, and Mycroft’s team just arrived outside; we’re covered.”

The trip down the stairs was slower than the one up; he needed time to process, and practice, what he might say. “ _The truth is John, I …” No, no, no. “John, my attraction for you was, is…” No! “John, you’re very important to me…”_ But everything that came to mind sat uneasily in him; he couldn’t imagine them reaching his tongue. Mentally crumpling each rejected snippet into a wad, he tossed them aside.

Despite prolonging his descent, by the time he reached the ground floor, he still hadn’t a clue what he was going to say, and it caused him no small amount of anxiety. He would have to “wing it,” and he was little more suited to “wing it” than he was to tell the truth. At least in personal matters.

Feet away from John’s bed, Sherlock straightened himself and threw on an invisible cloak of confidence; he would need all the help he would get. But the moment he stepped past the room divider and saw his friend, the cloak fell off, all thought of artifice gone. The only thing that mattered was John. _Pretty much as it has been since we met._ That was the truth he felt ill-equipped to share. _But isn’t that why things are so complicated between us? Because neither of us has admitted the truth?_

“Christ, when was the last time you slept?” John asked as soon as he saw Sherlock. He cocked his head, concern etched between his brows.

“Yesterday. I think,” Sherlock said. From their own volition, the sides of his mouth tipped up.

“Ate?”

_Food?_ _Food is irrelevant_. Sherlock answered anyway, talking through the smile that he couldn’t seem to suppress. “Yesterday? Day before? Is that what you wanted to talk about, my eating and sleeping habits?”

“Ah, no, but we can’t have you falling over, can we.”

Tempted to point out that John’s appearance was considerably worse than his own could possibly be, Sherlock deemed it safer to avoid such comparisons. “I can assure you, I’m sufficiently fed and rested. There will be no ‘falling over.’” His face was starting to hurt. _Have I ever smiled for this long? But I can’t stop. Is this what happiness feels like? Nothing quite like it, is there._

John grunted. “Well, even if you doubt it, do me the favor of getting some fruit or something from the kitchen. One patient around here is enough.”

A retort on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock retracted it; John’s remark was not rhetorical. “I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said, returning in a flash with a sugar muffin. He pulled a straight-backed chair next to the bed and sat looking at John as if an audience. Taking the time to first cross his legs and pull back the muffin’s wrapper, he took the plunge.

“You want to know the truth, you said.” Sherlock’s foot tapped the air, preparing himself for an uncomfortable but necessary conversation. John had the right to know. 

“Right. I’m, uhm, wondering why it is that I’m here in this house. This obviously isn’t the flat you, I mean we, live in. Something unusual is going on, and no one will tell me why. Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?” John clasped his hands on his lap and watched Sherlock, waiting on a response. 

“Oh.” Sherlock’s foot went still. He looked at John intently, thinking. Not knowing quite what to do.

“I…I thought you wanted to talk about …” Sherlock drew a blank, foraging for a word different to the one that had initially leapt to mind; he needed to deflect from what he had started to say. But only one word sat in his brain, and it fell out of him. “…us.”

“What? God no. I, uh…”

Sherlock felt as if he’d been hit; he hadn’t expected any objection, let alone one quite so vehement. Pausing to regain his equilibrium, when he did, he stood, seeming to have a sudden interest in the muffin still in his hand. “Well, I’ll leave you to—”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice reached out as if placing a hand on his arm asking him to wait. “That didn’t come out right. The thought of, well, us. It doesn’t repel me. No. It’s just that I, uhm…”

Putting up a hand to stop John, Sherlock said, “No explanation necessary. I’ll just get back to—”

“Let me finish,” John insisted. “I’ve seen the pictures in my mobile. No one takes that many pictures of someone on the sly unless…you know...” John’s awkward chuckle laid bare his embarrassment. “The thing is, I don’t remember—"

“Really, John.” Sherlock felt his panic rising. He needed to get away, glad that the nurse had gone outside to smoke so there would be no witness to his humiliation. “No need to say more. I’ll uh, go up and take that nap you suggested. I’m suddenly feeling quite weary.”

Making a hasty detour to retrieve his laptop and Simon’s “gift,” Sherlock couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough. Finding a bedroom that still had a bed in it, he sat down, setting the things down beside him and writing the text he had little choice but to send. How could he continue to live with John in the same house after he had been so roundly rejected?

**_I can arrange other accommodations for you by end of day. SH_ **

He stared at the screen for minutes that felt like hours, waiting for a response he didn’t want. Hoping to be wrong. 

He wasn’t wrong; John didn’t respond. _There’s my answer._

With fingers that felt sluggish and a heart that felt more so, Sherlock typed. **_See that Dr. Watson is moved to wherever he chooses to go. Today. Cost is of no concern; send the bill to Mycroft. SH_**

The message sat on the screen unsent, taunting him. _What choice do I have? He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be near me. There’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable._ Sherlock sent the text.

Andi responded as quickly as if she’d been sitting around waiting for it. **Is this you talking or Dr. Watson?**

**_I would think even you can see it is from me. SH_ **

**Ha ha. You know what I mean. Don’t do something you’ll regret.**

**_The only thing I regret_** Sherlock deleted the text and started over. Andi didn’t deserve to have his churlishness directed at her. **_Thank you. SH_**

He hadn’t lied to John when he’d said he was weary. Still, as tired as he was, he couldn’t rest; the packaging that had come with the sock puppet beckoned him. _How had Simon known when the tube had been opened?_ Inspecting the tube and the puppet pieces from every angle, nothing about them struck him as unusual or noteworthy. _What is it?_ He stared at the small pile in front of him, willing it to divulge its secret. He began again, methodically going over each item a second time. A third time. Picking up the tube, he ripped apart the thick, hard paper, examining its layers.

Again, he stared at the pile. What had he missed?

The tape. _It’s the tape._

Ordinary shipping tape with fiber strings imbedded in it to give it strength had secured the cap to the tube. Sherlock stripped the tape, exposing the fibers and comparing each one to the rest. And in the middle of the tape, one of the strings was not string at all but what looked to be a metal-based filament, suitable material to create a means of transmission.

Done. Now what?

Sherlock flopped onto his back on the bed, his mind miles from sleep.

**Did I say I wanted to leave?**

What? John? John! Sherlock’s heart fluttered an extra beat. He hadn’t wanted John to leave, not really; he’d wanted only to end the pain.

Holding his mobile out from him, he considered what to say, fearing that, in his inadequacy at human interactions, he would drive John away not ensure he stayed. For far too long, Sherlock pondered how to phrase _don’t go._ Long enough that the new fear became that John would have arranged to leave before the text was sent. And then he had it. “He’s still the same person, isn’t he?” Isn’t that what Andi said?

**_If you stay, it could be dangerous. SH_ **

Hardly had he hit Send before he received a reply.

**Thank god.**

Sherlock released a heavy breath, reflecting briefly how, only months ago, he would have preened over his own cunning at finding the perfect phrase that would work. Knowing that, right now, the only thing he felt was deep gratitude. This is what John Watson did to him.

**And Sherlock?**

Rolling onto his side, Sherlock read the text again, and responded; he couldn’t wait for what came next.

**_Yes? SH_ **

**You’re not sleeping.**

Smiling, Sherlock sank into the bed and closed his eyes, for the first time in days feeling as if all of him were there.

Now he could sleep.

~~**~~

Sherlock hunted blindly for his mobile lying on the mattress beside him. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been able to sleep lying down, and he didn’t want to fully wake up unless he had no other choice. But an arriving text had woken him, and it might be important. It might be John.

With the late afternoon sun blaring through the window, he squinted at the screen, blinking away the sleep until he could see clearly.

**What a lovely woman your landlady is. I left your next packet with her, and she asked me to send her regards to you and Lover Boy. Tsk tsk. You haven’t told her where you are? Don’t worry, the secret is ours.**

**Anyway.**

**I eased you in last time, Mr. Holmes. Because I know you love a challenge, your new puzzle will have a time limit. Ohhh, this is getting so exciting! I hope you’re enjoying our game as much as I am.**

**Ta! Love, Simon**

**Author's Note:**

> Deep Deep Feeling is from McCartney III. What a wonderful surprise the album was at the end of a wretched year!! 
> 
> Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the use of her Sherlock transcripts!


End file.
